


Dead Man's Dinner

by Panic_CelestialInk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Dinner, F/M, Faked Suicide, Flirting, Kissing, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Season/Series 03, Romance, Romantic Tension, Texting, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panic_CelestialInk/pseuds/Panic_CelestialInk
Summary: Irene never thought that she’d end up here, in a tiny town at the bottom of Africa, waiting for a dead man to join her for dinner.  . . .
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Dead Man's Dinner

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I'm arriving about 3 years late to the fandom, but I recently watched the BBC version of Sherlock and I absolutely loved it. Unsurprisingly, Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman were outstanding in the roles of "Sherlock" and "John" respectively. 
> 
> But, I fell hard for the Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler ship, so this idea popped into my head and wouldn't leave, so I thought that I'd pen it for your enjoyment.
> 
> Let me know what you think.

Irene never thought that she’d end up here, in a tiny town at the bottom of Africa, waiting for a dead man to join her for dinner. But life was unpredictable. She glanced at her watch.

18:40.

She’d booked the table for 18:30, earlier than she usually would book a dinner, but she wanted to give her companion plenty of time to arrive. And, to give them plenty of time together, once he’d arrived.

“Would you like a menu?” A waiter asked in a thick Afrikaans accent, as he approached her table. He pulled out a notepad and pen and waited expectantly. Like all the waiters, he was wearing a black tie, white shirt and had a black apron tied around his waist.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”

_If he arrives,_ a nasty voice hissed in her ear.

She shook herself to dislodge the doubts and the waiter put away his pen.

“All right. I’m right here, should you need something,” he said, his mocha skin darkening with a slight blush as his eyes roved over her. Irene nearly laughed, but she couldn’t blame him for checking her out since she’d made an effort with her appearance. She wore her best black leather jacket, skin-tight trousers and a blouse that offered a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage to anyone who cared to look. There was only one man that she wanted to be looking at her, though.

She let her eyes wander around the restaurant. It was very different to the places she used to frequent in London. It was an old, colonial building that the owners had restored and converted into a restaurant with a home-like feel. The furniture was all Dutch Colonial and the food—mainly comforting dishes like chips, fish, steak or vegetables—was served on old, patterned crockery. There were paintings of the local flora and fauna on most of the walls and the windows looked out over the fields where hundreds of Namaqualand daisies bloomed.

She took a breath and reached for her wineglass, ignoring the way her fingers trembled. Sherlock Holmes would meet her for dinner. Anything else was unacceptable. She sipped at the wine as her mind went back to the moment she’d received the news.

_Irene lay back on her pillows and breathed in deeply. The air smelt crisp and clean, with the faint tang of salt. So different from the air in London. The air there was chocked full of everything from exhaust fumes to sizzling oil. She missed it. Just like she missed the bustle of the city and the wide variety of entertainment. Towns like the one she was staying in catered more for the people who were on their way to better places. It only had a run-down hotel, a restaurant and a gift shop selling Knick knacks for tourists. Still, it was a lot better than a terrorist camp in Karachi, or the places she’d stayed in after that._

Oh well, at least the hotel has a good Wi-Fi connection, _she thought as she opened a browser on her phone._

_As usual, she keyed in the name “Sherlock Holmes” and waited. The first entry was usually the blog Dr Watson kept of the cases he and Sherlock solved together. She enjoyed reading those—Dr Watson had a remarkable gift for storytelling and she often found herself laughing at his recollections of their adventures. The remainder of the entries were newspaper articles detailing how “Hat-man” solved another crime that had left the police stumped. Occasionally, Sherlock’s own website, “_ the Science of Deduction _” would pop up, and she’d skim over what he was researching currently. The last article was on the kinds of injuries that could be left by riding crops—now that was a topic for her._

****

_The search results appeared._

****

**_SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS_ **

****

**_SHERLOCK HOLMES A FRAUD_ **

****

**_SUICIDAL DETECTIVE FAKED IT ALL._ **

_“No!” She bolted upright and willed the words to change._

_But they remained the same._

_She clicked on the first article written by a “Kitty Riley”. Irene read through the text, her lip curling as she processed the woman’s allegations that Sherlock was addicted to the limelight and orchestrated crimes for the attention that came from solving them. The article claimed that he’d even hired people to pose as criminals in order for him to have more crimes to solve._

This woman has no idea what she’s talking about, _Irene thought._

_Sherlock, a fraud? The idea was ludicrous. Irene had encountered enough genii to know the real thing when she saw it. And Sherlock was a real as they came. As for his love for solving crimes . . . Yes, Sherlock was addicted to solving crimes, but not for the attention. It was about the thrill of the game, the feeling of outwitting your opponent, and the exhilaration of victory._

_Irene understood that perfectly._

_She skimmed over the content until she found the name of Kitty Riley’s source: Richard Brooks. She opened up a new browser, typed in the name and, in a few moments, dozens of articles about an actor from a beloved children’s television show popped up. Only, the actor was someone she clearly recognised. Her eyes narrowed at the smiling face of Moriarty on her screen._

_“An actor? How did you make the world believe that you were an actor hired by Sherlock? Why would Sherlock let you discredit him like that?”_

_She clicked off her phone and climbed off the bed. She had some work to do._

_***_

“Would you like another drink?” her waiter asked as he returned to her table.

“I told you I’m waiting for someone. I’ll call you if I need anything,” she said curtly.

The waiter hesitated, and then disappeared again. She glanced at her watch.

19:15.

Her stomach shrivelled. She looked around. Her gaze wandered aimlessly over the patrons in their jeans and T-shirts and the waiters moving between the tables. She couldn’t spot any dazzling blue eyes or messy hair on any of the patrons.

_There’s still time,_ she tried to reassure herself, as one of the waiters brushed past her chair.

Another fifteen minutes passed. Then another half-hour.

_He really is gone . . ._

Something inside her imploded. She struggled for composure as she pressed a fist to her lips. Tears leaked from her eyes.

He was dead.

_He was dead_.

She’d never see him again. She’d never hear him go off on one of his impossibly fast deductions, or hear him playing the violin as his mind worked to unravel some mystery he’d stumbled upon. She’d never have a chance to—

“Would you like a tissue?” a waiter—a different waiter from earlier, though he also had a thick Afrikaans accent—said , as he came to the table.

“No. Leave me alone,” she said thickly, without really looking at him.

“Please, take a tissue.”

“I told you to go away!” she snapped.

“I think, Ms Adler, that you should take the tissue.” As the voice spoke, the Afrikaans accent faded, replaced by a British one. A very familiar British one.

Her head snapped up and she finally took a good look at the waiter. It was him. It was her Sherlock. He’d slicked down his hair and was wearing the same white shirt and bowtie as all the other waiters, but now that she was paying attention, she easily recognised the incredible blue eyes and infuriatingly smug expression. He held the tissue closer to her.

“Since when do you wait tables?” she asked as she took the tissue from him.

“Waiters have a great deal of anonymity and that’s quite an asset at the moment.” He glanced at the chair opposite her. “May I?”

“Of course. I invited you, didn’t I?”

He slipped into the chair, removing his bowtie and ruffling his hair as he did so. She took the opportunity to wipe away what remained of the tears and briefly wished that she could head to the bathroom and touch up her make-up.

“I’m glad you made it, Mr Holmes,” she said as she finished and set aside the tissue.

“I apologise for the delay, but things came up. You know how it is when you’re dead.”

“But, you’re clearly not.”

“Only very few people know that.”

“And I’m one of them? I’m flattered.” She smiled at him as she took a sip of her wine. “I see you got my message.”

“Yes.” He shrugged. “It was moderately clever code. You chose flowers that could only be found in this region of the world. The number of flowers was the date; the number of colours corresponds to the month; the pendant with a springbok relates to the restaurant and the ribbons in red and black indicated that the invitation was from you. ”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Yes. You used the same shade of red as your lipstick the day we met.”

Her smile widened and he frowned at her.

“Why are you smiling?”

“You remember the exact shade of my lipstick. I think I must have made quite the impression on you.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and cleared his throat. “That’s off topic. We were discussing my death.”

“Why would you rather discuss that? It’s quite a morbid topic.”

He rolled his eyes and she made a gesture for him to continue.

”It was quite a tricky thing to arrange my suicide since Moriarty would only accept something that entailed public disgrace. It also had to be believable, so I thought that leaping from a building would—”

“Appease your taste for the dramatic,” she interrupted.

His lips twitched. “I never could resist a touch of drama.”

“I know. Now, what I’d like to know is why you would let Moriarty win?”

“He didn’t. Moriarty is dead.”

“Dead?”

“He blew his own brains out when he realised that the fact that he was alive meant I had a way to avoid suicide.”

Irene blinked and then tapped her fingers against the table as she thought. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“Moriarty never seemed to be very interested in life. He was always focused on the challenge, the thrill of the game, rather than the money or power. I think the idea of having nothing to occupy himself was terrifying to him. So, if you showed him that his death meant that he won—and that he’d never have to be bored again . . . yes. He’d kill himself. But, that still doesn’t really answer my question: why did you fake your death?”

Sherlock leant forward and steepled his fingers. “Moriarty’s network is vast. A spider web of criminals involved in everything from fraud to human trafficking. It has to be stopped. The first step in stopping Moriarty was to let him believe that he’d defeated me. My brother and I planned everything from Mycroft leaking him information about my life, to the press turning against me, to enlisting Molly Hooper to—”

“Molly?”

“A mortician who’s been helping me with cases for years. She was ideally placed to find a corpse that looked enough like me to convince everyone that I really was dead. You, of all people, should know that a fake death still needs to have a corpse.”

Irene nodded and decided that she’d have to do a bit of investigating into “Molly Hooper” at a later stage. She tilted her head, but he didn’t seem to have anything more to add. 

“You still aren’t answering my question: what motivation did Moriarty give you to jump?”

Sherlock’s eyes became distant and the pieces fell into place for Irene.

“He threatened Dr Watson, didn’t he?”

Sherlock started. “How did you know?”

“You two are a couple. It’s hardly surprising.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “John and I aren’t a couple. We’re friends.”

Irene snorted. “Friends? Friends don’t act like you two. You’d do anything for him and Dr Watson would do anything for you. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t come clean about faking my death the first time.”

“I know. I was there.”

She winced. “I’m sorry about that.”

“I know. You already apologised when we were in Karachi. You were saying about John?”

“You care about him. That’s something Moriarty took advantage of.”

Sherlock looked away, but not before she glimpsed the terror in his eyes. Her breath caught. “You would have done it, wouldn’t you?”

“What?” His head snapped up and he frowned at her.

“If you couldn’t have faked your death . . . you would have jumped to save him. That’s how much you care about him.”

He shook his head. “You’re wrong. I have been reliably informed that I don’t have a heart and that I’m incapable of caring about others.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

He leant closer. “How are you so certain, Ms Adler?”

“I saw your face when that CIA agent threatened Dr Watson. And I heard what happened to that thug when he threatened your housekeeper.”

“My landlady,” he corrected her.

“Yes . . . erm, Mrs Holdston?”

“Mrs Hudson, actually.” He pressed his lips together. “I leave you to your own deductions.”

It was as close to an admission as she would ever get from him. “All right. Now, to business.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out something and showed it to him.

“Another camera phone?” He raised an eyebrow again. “I thought you’d given up on collecting state secrets?”

“I’m a bad girl, Mr Holmes,” she joked. “I didn’t really learn my lesson. But there aren’t any state secrets on this phone. Just information you’d be interested in.

“Such as?”

“Information on Moriarty’s network.” She keyed in the passcode and slid it across the table. Sherlock scooped up the phone and started to scroll through the contents. She saw his eyes widen fractionally. “This is extensive information. Dangerous information if anyone knew you had it. How did you get it?”

She smirked at him. “I know what people like.”

“Why are you showing me this?”

“I’m not showing it to you. I’m giving it to you. It’s a gift.”

He set the phone down and steepled his fingers again. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze as it roved over her. A moment later, he started to speak.

“Your hair has been recently done, not more than two days ago at the latest. In the same way, you’ve done your nails, in the exact same of red as your lipstick—a colour associated with danger and romance. Your outfit is expensive, and designed to show off your figure. In short, you’re trying to look your best. You’re wearing make-up, but it’s waterproof, judging by the fact that it’s still in place after your outburst, which suggests you anticipated being emotional tonight. While we’ve been talking, your pupils dilated—a typical sign of attraction.”

“Or poor lighting,” she said, but he ignored her. 

“And now, you’re handing me a camera phone with information that could provide you with protection from anyone, without asking for anything in return. My deduction: you. Ms Adler, are in love with me.”

The air rushed from her lungs. Irene swallowed hard and then said. “Love, Mr Holmes? Love is for fools. ”

She pushed the camera phone across the table. “Just take the phone.”

He looked at it for a long moment and then shook his head. “I can’t take it, Ms Adler”

“Why not?”

“I can’t take it.” He looked away as he spoke.

Her eyes narrowed and she leant forward. “Why?”

He didn’t answer.

“Fine. Keep quiet,” she snapped. “But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to make my own deductions.”

“Be my guest.”

She narrowed her eyes as she took him in. “Although you’re dressed as a waiter, you’ve taken some care in your appearance—the shirt is clean, and you’re wearing a good cologne. Nothing overpowering, but noticeable when you get close enough. Men only wear cologne in that way when they want someone to get up close and personal. You’ve touched your hair several times, and I can see that I’m not the only one with dilated pupils around here.”

“A fact that can be attributed to poor lighting.”

“Don’t use my excuses,” she snapped. “And, you came all the way to war-torn Karachi to save me from being executed.”

“Yes. And you thanked me by stealing my clothes.”

“I didn’t.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You grabbed a gun off one of the dead terrorists, pointed it at me and ordered me to remove the outfit.”

She smiled and shrugged. “I needed a male disguise to escape and I wasn’t about to go disrobing corpses for one. Besides, you’ve seen me naked, so it’s only fair I get to see you. If you want my professional opinion, though, you have absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about . . . “

Sherlock turned red and cleared his throat. Repeatedly. “Anything else?”

“Yes. You helped me fake my death and kept it a complete secret from everyone, including your own brother. Your own death wasn’t nearly so secret. And, everyone knows that when many people know a secret, it doesn’t remain secret for long. So, that tells me you care more about keeping my secrets safe—about keeping _me_ safe—than you do yourself. And, finally, there’s the information on the camera phone. Information which can help you bring down Moriarty’s network. Yet, you refuse to take it.”

“The information could be fake,” he said.

“I have no reason to fake it.”

“Revenge for thwarting you?”

She laughed. “I got my revenge when I got you to strip for me.” Again, he blushed. “No, you saved me, so we’re even as far as I’m concerned. Now, back to the phone.” She tapped the screen lightly. “Even if the information on here was false, you have enough knowledge of Moriarty and his network to see what’s legitimate and what isn’t. No, you’re not worried about the information being false. You mentioned that the information on the phone is dangerous. But, if you took it, no one would know you had it. The only danger would be to the one who collected it—me. You’re not worried about the information being fake—you’re trying to protect me.”

“What are you saying, Ms Adler?”

“I’m saying, Mr Holmes, that I’m not the only love-struck fool sitting at this table.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly at her as she leant back and folded her arms. “Am I wrong ?” she asked, when it didn’t seem like he was going to respond.

“Good deductions, Ms Adler. You’re . . . correct.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Now, what are we going to do?”

She looked around the room. “We’re in a restaurant, Mr Holmes. And, from what I’ve heard, they make a very good steak and chips. Let’s have dinner.”

There was a long pause and, for a sickening moment, she thought he would get up and walk out the door. Given their history, she wouldn’t have really blamed him.

Then he smiled and said. “I’d like that.”

She smiled back. “There’s just one last thing.”

Irene stood and walked around the table, so that she was standing right in front of him. Then, she drew back her hand and struck him across the face wishing that she had her riding crop so she could really teach him a lesson.

“Ms—“ She swooped down and cut off whatever response he had with her lips.

She intended to pull away, but his hands clamped around her and pulled her down so that she was seated in his lap. His mouth moved against hers. Heat blazed through her, searing away anything other than the smell of his cologne, the strength of his arms and the taste of him. Too soon, they broke apart and she pulled away so that she could look directly into his smouldering eyes.

“Never do that to me again, Mr Holmes,” She said as she rested her palm against his throat.

“I promise,” he said, sounding slightly dazed. He reached up and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. His left hand moved to her wrist, and she leant forward so that her lips brushed the shell of his ear.

“Are you checking my pulse?”

“Of course,” he breathed.

“Good. Because I just checked yours.”

“Elevated?”

“Very. Just like mine.”

“Perfect, but, do you realise, Ms Adler, we’re making a scene.”

She glanced up and saw that nearly every patron in the restaurant was staring at them. Some of them held forks halfway to their mouths and she saw one man frozen in the act of pouring wine into an overflowing glass.

She turned her attention back to Sherlock. “Do you mind?”

“Not usually, but I need to retain some level of anonymity.”

“That’s disappointing.” Still, she smiled. “But, at least we can have dinner.”

***

She pushed open the creaking door and flicked on the light of her hotel room. The bulb flickered, casting a dim light over the worn furniture and plain bedspread. She sighed as she removed her jacket and hung it on the hook behind the door. Dinner had been . . . wonderful. Better than she’d hoped. They’d spoken about everything from some of his cases, to music they liked, to their interests: He loved dancing and had a secret fascination with beekeeping; she loved mystery novels and photography. They would have continued talking for much longer, but one of the actual waiters had firmly told them that the restaurant was closing and they needed to leave. So, they’d paid the bill and reluctantly headed their separate ways.

_I hope I see him again._

She shook herself. She couldn’t—

A deep, masculine moan of pleasure interrupted her thoughts. Her eyes widened as she stared at her jacket.

_Was that—_

Another moan of pleasure. Sherlock’s moan of pleasure. She dug into her jacket pocket, grabbed her phone and sure enough, there were two texts waiting for her.

**Thank you for dinner. SH**

**I had fun.**

Her fingers flew across the screen. **You programmed a text alert on my phone? When?**

**Before I sat down to eat with you. You need to pay more attention to your surroundings.**

**I like it.**

She laughed as his moan accompanied his reply. **I thought that you would.**

**I do. It’s a good reminder of my promise.**

**Promise?**

**That I’d have you until you begged for mercy. Twice.**

There was a long silence. She typed another message. **Afraid, Mr Holmes?**

**No.**

Another moan. **I’m . . . intrigued. Maybe you could show me when we have dinner again?**

Her heart hammered in her chest. **And when will that be?**

**Soon.**

**Author's Note:**

> So, there you have it. Irene and Sherlock reunited when the world believed them both dead.
> 
> As for Irene forcing Sherlock to strip for her in Karachi--the credit for that idea goes to Steven Moffat, as indicated below (why was this not filmed and included in a flashback, or something?!)
> 
> https://www.bbcamerica.com/anglophenia/2015/06/steven-moffat-and-the-lost-scene-between-sherlock-and-irene-adler


End file.
